


waking up at the start of the end of the world

by rhymeswithmonth



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Future Fic, M/M, Parallel Universes, The Distortion, Time Travel, season 5, speculative series ending fic, the spiral fuckery, trying to workshop an ending that is appropriately canon-typically tragic, while being also perhaps not as tragic as it could be?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:48:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24749368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhymeswithmonth/pseuds/rhymeswithmonth
Summary: Martin wakes up from the first dreamless sleep he’s had since the world ended. He wakes up too comfortable, in a bed that's too soft, in a world that's all wrong.A speculative end of Series fic.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 11
Kudos: 137





	waking up at the start of the end of the world

Martin wakes up from the first dreamless sleep he’s had in months. There had not been a single harrowing nightmares, no chilling fog, no feeling of being chased, or hands on his body, or swarms of bugs. Not even one solitary meat man.

He even feels cozy. He can’t remember the last time he’d felt properly warm. The apocalypse is very cold and damp, generally, or occasionally very oppressively warm and damp. The zones dominated by the Flesh in particular tend to make you sweat in places you’d never sweat from before. Martin had at one point the notion of camping out at the edge of a patch of Desolation to try and find some semblance of warmth after a hard trek through miles of frigid Vast moorland. But all the flames had given him was bad smoke inhalation and nasty pink blisters on his exposed hands and face that had taken days to fade.

Normally waking up is a sudden occurrence, a jolt up when the nightmare is dominated by the End or the Slaughter. Waking up sobbing uncontrollably from a brush with the Desolation, clawing and choking his way up from the Buried. He usually come to mid panic, sometimes Jon will be holding his arms down so he doesn’t hurt himself, or stroking his hair while he cries. But this feels more like one of those lazy mornings before work; when the bed feels so lovely that all you want to is to roll over and fall back to sleep. Maybe he can? It’s not like they’re setting alarms in the apocalypse, there aren’t even proper nights and days. They just sort of stop when it makes sense, when Jon determines that an area is safe enough to risk making their little camp, or when Martin is too exhausted to keep going. And then the start again when Martin wakes up, or when something malevolent ventures their way. Nothing to rush for when the worst has already happened.

So he does. Martin rolls over and starts to drift back into the welcome embrace of slumber. Jon won’t mind waiting just a little while more. Martin can’t even feel him beside him right now, maybe he felt they were secure enough to explore a little. Maybe he’s off getting a statement out of the way while Martin is blissfully unconscious for once. Sighing contentedly he nuzzles deeper into the pillow and tugs the duvet more snugly to his chin. Starts to drift away.

But there’s something nagging at the back of his mind. The ground is so soft, as comfortable as any mattress would be. In fact it cradles his body perfectly, much like the memory-foam on his bed back in London. That had been a great mattress, one of his first big purchases after getting hired at the Institute. It had felt like a real milestone - a very adult indulgence bought with the pay from his shiny new adult career. No more sleeping on gross second-hand futons that friends or relatives are done with. He’s missed that bed. The mattress at Daisy’s cottage had been an ancient thing with springs that were always jabbing his organs and squeaking with every minuscule movement. But even that had been heaven compared to the following months in a sleeping-bag directly on the ground. The sleeping bag was musty as hell too, and always felt so /moist/ no matter how hard they tried to air it out. Although it feels very dry now, and smells faintly like fabric softener and strains of his usual shampoo...

Martin opens his eyes.

After waking up every day to a world that has ended, to all variety of hell-scapes ruled over by malicious fear monsters actively trying to torture them, you’d think waking up in his own apartment would be a relief. It’s not. It’s scarier by far than anything Martin’s faced in ages.

“Jon?” He yells, scrambling out of bed, stumbling ungracefully when the blankets tangle his knees. The place is no more than a glorified bachelor, the bedroom only separated from the living space by nature of it being tucked into a little nook. There’s only so many places Jon could be. Martin staggers around the corner and surveys the kitchen, hurrying to check the bathroom, even the linen closet “Jon! Can you hear me?”

Nothing. Is he still dreaming? Is this somehow a cruel trick played by one of the aspects? The Spider might think this sort of things is funny, or is it a new technique the Lonely is experimenting with? The Spiral maybe but it doesn’t feel like Helen’s style...

The absolute mother of all head-rushes hits him very suddenly, and he sinks to the floor beside the fridge, vision dancing with black spots. Fighting back the rising urge to vomit, the memories start to trickle back to his bit by bit.

They had made it to London, at last. Jon hadn’t been speaking much by that point, hadn’t been himself for days. As they’d drawn closer to their destination it had been like watching his humanity slough off him like a snake shedding old skin. He’d looked the same structurally, still the same size, all of his limbs thankfully in the same places, but like he’s been enhanced somehow, shiny and bright and new. He’d lost the last dark patches in his hair a ways back, so his whole head gleamed pure white. His eyes hadn’t been human since the Watcher’s Crown. He never blinks anymore, had only really been doing so for as long as he did because Martin had asked him to at least try to remember to when they were talking, because it was bloody unsettling.

Jon had been terrified that at some point he’d start sprouting extra eyes, but that never ended up happening. Sometimes when he was channeling Beholding, whether taking a statement or facing down another entity, Martin would see flashing eye-like shapes roiling in the air around him, a bit like a mirage on the road on a hot day. But they thankfully never manifested literally. As they approached London, that began to happen more often. Whether it was due to their increasing proximity to Jonah’s realm or the thickening population density of the London suburbs, Jon’s spells of normality grew fewer and further between. As they snaked their way down the country they’d been doing their best to avoid cities, skirting around the villages and staying off the main roads in favour of plodding through farmland and forest. But eventually it became impossible.

It got to a point where every time Jon opened his mouth a statement would pour out. Martin would ask him a simple question and when he tried to answer, instead a flood of misery would spout forth unbidden. It frustrated him to the point of tears, and it was absolutely heartbreaking to watch him struggle to regain control of his own body like that. Martin had told him it was okay, even though it really really wasn’t. Jon was the only thing he had left, the only comfort in this world. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing him too. 

They risked breaking into a gift shop to get a notebook and pen set so at least Jon could write things down. Although eventually even that became a struggle, the words of the page taking dark turns, scribbling off into a written statement. Eventually Jon had the idea to try a blindfold. It helped a bit, of course he still Knew what was going on around them, but with his eyes covered he could cut the most immediate stimulation out. Martin led him by hand and that was okay for a bit, Jon was able to speak a bit, albeit fragmented and halting.

It was honestly the first time Martin truly felt like they were in hell. Watching Jon struggle like that, and not being able to properly communicate. Not to mention that obviously the escalating horrors around them, because there were so many more souls, the realms they passed through were crammed together and overlapping. Some seemed to be in harmony, realms where two sometimes three aspects were working together at once. But sometimes they would be at odds, fighting bloody battles for dominance over the humans they tortured.

God but it was awful.

The only thing keeping Martin from losing it was that despite everything, Jon was still there. Even when it felt like he sort of wasn’t, he’d do something that would remind him. Martin would be leading him in silence for hours, not talking, trying to block out the gruesome scenes around them and it would feel like dragging a corpse behind him and he’d start to spiral into despair. And then Jon would do something small like squeeze his palm, or rub his thumb over his knuckles. And that would be enough. Or he would stop to catch his breath and Jon would sidle close and lean his head on his shoulder. Or out of nowhere Jon would yank on their joined hands and take the lead, guiding Martin around a realm of the Lonely because even though there was no avoiding realms anymore, no more neutral territory for them to stick to, Jon refused to let Martin walk through the Lonely. Even if it meant a long detour.

Jon was still in there. Martin kept a running mantra in his head. Even when it felt like he wasn’t he _was_ there, just buried deep inside himself. And it was Martin’s job to stay with him, give him a shoulder to lean against, a hand to hold. That was his job now.

Had they reached to panopticon? The memories don’t blur as much as the fracture like light through a prism. But yes, they had. Martin can’t quite recall how. He’d been like a robot, exhausted beyond the point where he shouldn’t have physically been able to keep going but somehow he had. His world had been reduced to the ground in front of him where he would put his next step, to Jon’s fingers laced with his own, and of course, to the tower looming taller than ever above them. The feeling of eyes on him nearly unbearable.

He remembers being surprised that he recognized things. They’d pass a building that had managed to maintain its shape, a familiar park, a remarkably intact street sign. He remembers when Jon started rambling and not stopping, trying to tell a thousand stories at once, talking a mile a minute, sentences running one into the next into the next on and on. He remembers standing at the base of the panopticon and feeling the full weight of The Beholding crushing down on him. He doesn’t remember climbing to the top but he remembers being there, impossibly high above the ruins of the city. Elias - Jonah - was there looking immaculate as ever in a perfectly crisp suit. What had he been saying? What had they been planning to do? They must have had a plan, going in. But did they? Martin can’t remember one. He remembers Jon gazing out the windows, utterly enraptured. He remembers...had there been a fight? No he doesn’t think so, but there had been blood. A lot of blood. Jon was covered in blood. Was it Jon’s blood? No he doesn’t think so. The panopticon had been shaking, the horizon bucking wildly. Jonah had been laughing, then screaming. What had happened?

The harder Martin tries to remember the more his head hurts. This must be what Jon felt like when he tried to directly Know things about the entities.

There is an image, disjointed and contextless, of Jon’s face very close to him. Covered in blood but calm, more himself then he’s been in a long time. There is the feeling of static, a yellow door. A tender kiss pressed to his brow and then the sense of a struggle. Then nothing.

“Helen?” Martin tries, then waits with bated breath for the door to appear. No such luck, not even a ripple in the air. “Fucks sake! Helen take me back! I know you can hear me fucking take me back to him Helen!”

He does get a response, but not the one he was expecting. Three muffled bangs come from the wall behind him, the one connecting to the neighbouring apartment. Then a familiar voice muffled but distinguishable, “Pipe down boy!” Martin gapes at the wall in stunned disbelief.

“Mister Abioye?” He calls back after a moment. “Is that you?”

“Of course you crazy child! Who else!” Then a curse in Igbo, “It’s morning! Shut up now!”

Being cursed out by Mister Abioye feels so familiar that Martin lets put an involuntary giggle, before clapping a hand over his mouth. Could it really be possible? Have they reversed the apocalypse? Is everything back to normal?

He gingerly gets to his feet, using the counter to steady himself as he limps across the room to the window. Drawing the curtain aside with his heart in his throat, he has to sink to his knees again at the sight of the street below. Pressing his forehead against the glass he drinks in the familiar view. There’s the tiny grocery that’s always out of milk, there’s his favourite curry takeaway, the travel agency that he’s never seen a single customer in. There’s Mister Daughtry opening up his newstand, unlocking the hatches, cranking out the awning, unpacking the crates of dailies. There are already a few early commuters on the sidewalk, carrying steaming to-go mugs as they bustle past. Across the street a light flick on in a window. The grey sky is starting to brighten slightly as the sun struggles to burn away the morning fog.

“We did it!” Martin gasps, his breath fogging up the glass, “we actually did it!”

But there’s still the question of where Jon’s wound up. Perhaps, like Martin, he’s in his own apartment? Waking up like any other morning as if nothing had even happened. Perhaps he’s going through his own rollercoaster of emotion, probably he’s worrying over where Martin is too.

Tearing himself away from the window he all but skips back to the bed. His cell is right where is should be, on the bed-stand plugged into the charger. The time on the screen reads ten to six in the morning. Martin opens his contacts, so desperate to hear Jon’s voice that his fingers are trembling and he accidentally scrolls too far down. Closing his eyes he takes a deep breath and tries to calm down. Scrolls back up to the Js.

It’s not there. Jon’s contact isn’t there. 

Martin had deleted it once, right after Jon had woken up from the coma. Although Jon had kept texting him, and it had almost been worse somehow the messages coming from an unknown number rather than seeing Jon’s name on the screen. Martin would delete the messages immediately without reading but just knowing that Jon was texting him was torture. And he hadn’t given up, even after weeks of Martin not answering. He should probably have blocked the number, but he never could bring himself to.

But he’d added it back later, once they were together in Scotland. It should be there. Martin pulls up the messenger app to try and find their last conversation. It would have been something mundane like sending each other photos of the animals on the neighbouring farms, or questions about which kind of cheese to get from the market.

But a cold bolt shoots through Martin’s stomach when he sees what his most recent text chain is. It’s not a lovingly domestic back and forth with Jon. It’s not an update from Basira. It’s with his mum. It’s an unanswered message from Martin asking what time she wanted him to drop by with the shopping. And it’s marked from the previous day.

Numbly he flicks back to the home screen. This time he pays more attention to the date. April 6th, 2015.

This time he does vomit, barely managing to make it to the kitchen sink to do so. Once his stomach is empty he forces himself to look at the phone again. Sure enough the date is still the same. 2015. Somehow Martin has wound up more than three years in the past. Three years before the end of the world.

Suddenly the phone in his hand jumps to life, vibrating and sounding the familiar jingle of his alarm. Heart pounding from the shock, Martin drops it, then scrambles to pick it back up. It’s just hit six o’clock, the time he’d be waking up to get ready for work. In addition to the alarm there’s a reminder. He knows what it says before he reads the words, the notification he’d set for himself on this exact day, all that time ago. **[FIRST DAY IN THE ARCHIVES!]** it says all in caps, **[YOU’RE GOING TO DO GREAT!!!]**

Okay okay okay. So that explains why he doesn’t have Jon’s number at least. They hadn’t known each other yet back in 2015, Martin had been in the library while Jon had been a researcher and while Martin had obviously seen him around, checked him through with books every once and a while, Jon was notoriously antisocial and had never responded to Martin’s small talk.

But today is the day they’d met properly. The first day of the new archival staff. God - it’s the day Jon became the Archivist. The day Martin and Tim and Sasha became his assistants. Oh god it meant that Tim and Sasha are still alive and Martin will get to see them again.

Assuming that Jon was coming into this realization at the same time as Martin, if not sooner, the logical thing to do would be to meet at the Institute. Martin’s not even sure where Jon was living at this time anyway, whether he was in the same apartment he had at the end. So to the institute then.

And he’d better go now. Back in 2015 the first time he’d have showered and primped until the absolute last second, agonizing about his hair, which clothes to wear to make the best first impression. Now he throws on the first trousers and sweatshirt he finds, shoving his feet into sneakers and hurries out the door.

He must look like a madman, sprinting down to the station at top speed. It’s agonizing having to stand still waiting for the train, and then again on the train as it takes him downtown. He wonders is Tim and Sasha will have any memories of what happened - what is going to happen. God it’ll be amazing to see Sasha. To see _the real_ Sasha. Martin muffles a sob into his elbow where he’s holding onto the bar. The other commuters are giving him dubious looks but he can’t bring himself to care. All of his friends alive and together and still free! It’s early enough to stop them all from signing their new contracts. They can quit! They can walk away from the Magnus institutes and live happily ever after!

When the train pulls into Pimlico station Martin is out the doors before they’re fully open. The walk usually takes him a bit under ten minutes, today he manages to shave it down to five. Later he’ll have to come back and relish all of the familiar sight and places that he thought he’d never see again.

The Magnus Institute is only just waking up, the usual night guard is still at the door, thankfully it’s Olly because Martin hadn’t even thought to grab his employee pass. Olly just raises a brow at Martin’s less than polished attire and holds the door open for him. The light is on at Rosie’s desk but the woman herself is nowhere to be seen, so Martin passes unquestioned through the foyer to the stairs that lead down to the basement.

Knowing Jon he’s probably already there. Martin can’t wait to lay eyes on him and hug him and be able to celebrate together over the fact that they’d bloody _saved the world_.

Sure enough the light in Jon’s office is on, shining bright like a holy beacon in the darkest night. Martin recalls what Jon had said about their journey to the panopticon; _something between a moth and a pilgrim_. Coming from Mister I’m-too-academic-and-serious-for-poetry it had struck Martin funny. But it’s how he feels now, like a moth fluttering down the hallway toward the light.

He rounds the doorway. And god - how many more shocks is his heart going to be expected to endure in one day?

Because it isn’t Jon.

It’s Gertrude Robinson.

Martin hadn’t known Gertrude well - by the time he’d come on she was well into what they’d later come to recognize as her mission to comb the globe collecting clues about the rituals. But at the time the rest of the staff had been flummoxed as to the reason an Archivist needed to be out of office so frequently. But here she was now, weeks after the day that Martin knew her to have been murdered in cold blood by Jonah Magnus.

She looks up at Martin’s entrance, momentary surprise replaced quickly with a withering look of disapproval. “Mister Blackwood.” She remarks dryly “You are very early. And underdressed. If you’re going to be working in my department you’re going to have to put in considerably more effort into your appearance.”

When Martin doesn’t respond promptly her from deepens, “Mister Blackwood! Did you hear me? What’s wrong with you child-“

“You’re supposed to be dead.” Martin says before he can think better of it, “why aren’t you dead? And where’s Jon?”

Martin should have known nothing he could say would phase Gertrude Robinson, the only sign she gives that he’s said something strange at all is a raised brow, “Oh I’m supposed to be dead am I? I’m afraid that is one memo I did not receive. Come in here and sit down, are you having a mental breakdown? I really don’t have time do deal with it if you are.”

He stays where he is in the doorway. “Where’s Jon?” He repeats, anxiety rising in his chest once again.

“I’m afraid I don’t have the faintest notion who you are referring to. _You and I_ have a meeting scheduled, although not, may I note, for another hour and a half.”

Now Martin does move forward to take a seat in the chair in front of the desk, all of the adrenalin the had fuelled him up til this point draining away at once. “Jon? Jonathan Sims? He works in research? He’s worked here for four years? Short? Grumpy looking? He was...well that’s to say I thought...” he trails off, watching Gertrude’s face for any flicker of recognition. “You don’t have a clue who I’m talking about do you?”

Her eyes remain fixed on his, her expression completely unreadable. “There is no employee by that name or description at the Magnus Institute. Not in research nor any other department.”

“Fucking-“ Martin drops his head into his hand, gripping at the roots of his hair. The pain is grounding, and well, if this is a nightmare it doesn’t wake him up. When he looks back up he’s still in the head archivist’s office at the institute, it appears to still be 2015, and Gertrude Robinson is still there watching him. “I’d like to make a statement.”

“You want to...?”

Martin lifts his chin and tries school his features into a serious expression. “Make a statement yes. It’ll be the best way to explain. Do you have a tape recorder?”

To her credit she doesn’t protest, just lays down the scarf she’s been in the process of folding and calmly removes her coat. “Very well if you wish. However it would be more standard for you to fill out a written account.”

“I think you’ll want to hear this one. No, in fact you need to hear it.”

“If you insist.” She opens the drawer of the desk that Jon had stored Jane Prentiss’ ashes. And his rib. The human remains drawer. Martin fights back hysterical laughter. She lifts out a recorder and lays it between them on the desk, presses play and takes her seat.

The familiar hiss of the recorder is comforting, makes him feel more steady. “Would you like to introduce me or should I?”

Gertrude’s mask cracks slightly at that, a slight widening of the eyes. She waves him on without comment.

Martin takes a breath, takes a moment to consider. “Statement of Martin Blackwood regarding Jonathan Sims, how he came to be Archivist for the Magnus Institute, and the end of the world. Also time travel.”

He tells it as fast as he can without omitting anything important. Only a woman who has seen and done the things Gertrude Robinson has seen and done could sit there like she does, listening patiently and not interrupting. By the time Martin wraps it up she’s leaning forward on her elbows, listening intently with her fingers pressed to her lips. “And well, here we are now. For all I know you should have been murdered like...twenty days ago. And obviously you’re not. And apparently Jon doesn’t work here, but I still do? So.” With his story told Martin isn’t sure what to say next.

Gertrude nods curtly, then presses the stop button on the recorder. Then she ejects the tape, gets up and rolls her chair aside to kneel and remove the loose floorboard where Martin knows she hides the tapes she doesn’t want anyone else to find. “You believe me then?” He asks, relief flooding him.

“Yes I find that I do.” She replies, resuming her seat. She looks tired, all of a sudden, and older for it. “You’ve proved to possess knowledge that would be impossible for you to have unless your account is at least mostly accurate. Yes Mister Blackwood I believe you.”

“Great!” Martin exclaims, gripping the edge of the desk, “Then you’ll help me? I was thinking the first thing we should do is figure out where Jon ended up. For whatever reason he doesn’t work at the institute in this time-line, but maybe he’s still in London? Even if he’s not it can’t be that hard to figure out, he’s probably trying to find me too. Hey maybe I should just google him-” he pulls out his phone to do just that, but Gertrude reaches out to stop him, laying her hand on top of his own.

“Jonathan Sims, he’s very dear to you?”

“Yes!” Martin can’t help but pour his emotions into the one word. How could she not understand that? From everything he’s just told her. “He’s the dearest - the most important thing. Jon’s the reason I’ve made it this far. I think he sent me here. I think things were falling apart really bad and he made Helen get me out and bring me here, to save me.”

Gertrude nods. “I have a statement you need to hear.”

“A statement? I’ve probably already heard it and honestly? There’s not really time we have to-“

“Martin.” It’s the first time she’s used his first name and it stops him dead. “Trust me. It’s...it’s not easy. But you need to listen to me. You asked me if I ‘had a clue’ who Jonathan Sims is. I told you there was no institute employee by that name, but you see, I do know who he is. From this statement.”

This shuts Martin up and makes him sink back in his chair. Gertrude pops out to the work floor and returns quickly with a tape in her hand which she wastes no time popping into the player.

It crackles to life. Gertrude’s voice, rendered tinny by the tape, echoes between them, **“Subject is David Macintosh, recorded 10th of January, 1999, regarding the disappearance of his neighbour Jonathan Sims. Please begin.”**

** “First thing I need to say is I’m not proud of how I treated the Sims kid alright? I was dealing with a lot of shit at home, I know, I know it’s a bullshit excuse for picking on a kid, but I was. And when I say I was dealing with it I don’t mean I was dealing well. I can admit that now. What happened, well let’s just say it put things in perspective. **

** The Sims kid - Jonathan. He was always a little shit you know? Like not to speak ill of the...well. Not to speak ill. But that’s just how it was. It looks bad on me I know, to pick on somebody that much younger than me, and he was a squirt too! Scrawny little guy. But he was always looking at me with this fucking _look_ and making snarky little comments. Like he thought he was so much better than me, like I was too stupid to understand what he was saying just because he was a nerdy little bookworm - shit, sorry. [heavy, weary sigh] Sorry. I’m working on that. Been going to a therapist and everything. **

** Anyway. The kid got on my nerves is what I’m saying. No good reason to push him around I know, but back then it felt like he deserved it. Like if I could make him scared enough then he’d finally respect me and stop sneering like that all high and mighty like. Everyone else was scared of me - I mean look at me [humourless laugh] I’m a scary bloke right? Could never understand why he weren’t more scared of me. **

** Anyway it was in the summer that it happened, late July I believe. I’d been helping Granny Sims out that week, clearing out some bushes she wanted gone, mowing the lawn, stuff like that. And Jonathan was on holiday from school so he was always under foot. Watching me from the window, or hanging around on the deck. He was even more obnoxious than ever, as he got older he got lippier. He was giving me sass the day before it happened, but his gran was around so I couldn’t say nothing back. So when I saw him that night I was ready to teach him a lesson. **

** I was just minding my own that night I swear. There’s this park where I’d go bum around after dinner, avoiding my old man until he passed out drunk and it was safe to go home. I was just skating around the lot, having a smoke. I guess he didn’t see me. He was reading a book - he usually was. But this one I could tell was a kiddy book. He was always reading these big novels, so it was funny, because this one was a proper baby book, with those thick cardboard pages and more pictures than words. **

** I couldn’t resist taking the piss. Little know-it-all smarty pants reading a picture book! I remember I grabbed it from him, gave him some of the usual roughing up, then I thought it’d be funny to read it out loud, really just make fun of him for it. But once I started to read something funny happened. I forgot all about all that. Forgot about Sims, about getting revenge, about everything. I just had to read that book. **

** The story was spooky actually, not really the sort of stuff you’d think a kid should read. It was about this Spider character and a bunch of fly people that he had coming over to his house. It’s go like this; one of the flies would knock on the door, the spider would answer, the fly would offer him a gift, the spider wouldn’t like it and then...well it didn’t outright _say_ he ate them but. You knew he did. So this spider eats a bunch of these flies, and the pictures! The pictures were sick mate! The door would get more and more bloody with every page. But I was like, hypnotized by it or something. Felt like the only thing that mattered was that I got to the end of the book. **

** But I didn’t. Not quite. Because I guess this whole time little Sims was proper fuming about me taking his book. Out of nowhere he just clobbers me! With a rake I think, must’ve picked it out of someone’s garden. Didn’t know he had it in him! So I go down, drop the book, and the little guy grabs it and makes a runner. I’m mad, and I want that book back. Must’ve still been sort of hypnotized because I was right furious that he’d taken it before I could finish. So I go after him of course, but he’d clocked me pretty good so I was dizzy and slow. I caught up to him a bit down the street, he’d gone up into somebody’s yard, up the stairs and was standing at the door. Not his house, didn’t know at the times who lived there. He knocked on the door and...and... **

** Here’s where it gets crazy. Nobody believes me when I tell them but I figured you’ve probably heard loads of weird shit right? That’s your whole thing so. Well the door opened, and these huge, hairy legs come out and grab him. It’s a freaking spider! I swear to god it was. Just like in the book. It wraps him up and the kid doesn’t even make a peep and then he’s gone and the door is closed. **

** Whatever the book did to me ended as soon as the door closed. I know I shoulda done something, if I’d been braver maybe I’dve gone up there and tried to save him. But I was scared out of my mind. So I just got the fuck out of there as fast I could, ran home and locked myself in my room for the night. Stayed there for days as a matter of fact, until my Da knocked the door in and dragged me out. **

** They thought he was kidnapped. When Sims didn’t come home that night. The whole village was in a right state over it. Police from all over the county came in to help look for him, all the parents were keeping their kids indoors. It made National news and everything. Nobody thinks that kind of stuff will happen in their town, [dark chuckle] if only they knew the half of it. **

** Do you think I’m horrible for not telling them right away? I felt horrible. But would they have even believed me? Do you even believe me now? Fuck I don’t even...on the darkest days I thought I’d gone crazy. I mean a giant spider? The fuck? But I saw what I saw. And the next day Sims was just gone. The thing that really gets me is that it could have so easily been me. If the kid hadn’t bowled me over like that I would’ve been the one up on that step, the one on the missing posters. I saved one of those, the posters they put up all over. Still have it, look at it some times. He was so fucking little, it kills me. And he saved my life. **

** I told them eventually, not everything at first, but that I’d seen him going up to that house. But just as I thought it didn’t do any good. Nobody had been living there for at least a year, the owner went overseas for work or something. They searched the whole place and there was no sign of the kid, or anyone having been there. Just a load of fucking cobwebs [unsteady laughter, a slight hiccup at the end] I was messed up about it for a long time. Guess I still am. Coming here, telling you, I hoped it would help. My therapist said it would. Dunno though. Might want to do something more. **

** Been thinking about joining up to be a cop. The kind that helps find missing kids. Couldn’t do anything for little Sims but maybe I could help others like him, find kids who are actually just regular kidnapped. Plus me bing a copper would royally piss my old man off, which is always a plus. Might do it. Maybe then I’d finally be able to look his gran in the eyes again. Old lady Sims. I always did like her, she was cooler than most adults. Treated me well, paid decent, talked to me like a human being. She’s never got over it. She’d be down at the police station every other day to yell at the officers, couldn’t understand why they aren’t doing more. She got real sick last winter and they had to force her into a home. I visited a couple times; her minds still sharp as ever, which seems like a curse more than anything. She’s torturing herself over it, thinks it’s her fault. She lost the kid’s father so young too, and then his mother a few years later. I didn’t know that before. Didn’t know why the kid was living with his gran. So tragic when you think about it, the old girl lost her whole damn family in such a short time. You don’t expect to grow old on your own when you’ve got kids and grandkids.  **

** You think I should tell her the truth? Nah, me neither. Wouldn’t make it easier I don’t think. **

** Well that’s all I guess. All I’ve got to say about it. I think I will look into the police thing. Now that I’ve said it out loud I think it’s the right thing for me to do. If they’ll have me. Make up for all the years of being a shit-head. Anyway thanks for listening. **

The recorder clicks off. Marin doesn’t say anything, so Gertrude takes it upon herself to elaborate.

“I’m fairly certain this Jonathan Sims is the same one you are referring to. There a copy of the missing poster Mister McIntosh was referencing in the file if you’d like to see for yourself. Jonathan Sims, born in 1987, missing person case filed in 1995. No leads were ever found, no suspects to speak of.”

Martin accepts the file she holds out to him and mutely studies the photocopy of the poster. He’d never actually seen a photo of Jon as a child, but it’s unmistakable. He had the same solemnity to his features even at eight, the hair was darker, none of his signature silver yet emerged. But his eyes are the same, staring up off the page like they’re taking personal offence with your entire person.

“As anyone with a brain can surmise it’s a classic agent of the Web, and a very unoriginal iteration at that. Mind control, a literal spider. Uninspired but effective enough. The book however, caught my attention, which is why I remembered the name when you came in. It belonged to the collection of-“

“Leitner.” Martin interrupts, monotone.

“Yes, it must have been a Leitner.”

“But.” Martin says, voice shrill and plaintive even to his own ears, “in _my_ timeline it wasn’t Jon. It was the bully - this David who went into the house. Who got taken. _It shouldn’t have been Jon_.

“I’m sorry. But it appears that there are multiple divergences between this ‘timeline’ as you put it, and the one you previously inhabited. The one that ended when your Jonathan Sims completed his ritual. I’m beginning to think that this is less of a case of time travel as you originally presented, and more likely of parallel realities. In this reality it was young Mister Sims, not Mister Macintosh who was taken by the Web. In fact, I work with Mister Macintosh fairly frequently, he’s become quite successful in the police force. I assume you’ve heard of section 31? And as you can see, I am standing in front of you very much alive. There have been other statements that have hinted at the possibility of multiple realities, similar but subtly different. Now with your statement I am beginning to think that it is an avenue I am going to have to give more attention.”

Martin’s ears ring. So what...he’s somehow wound up in a universe without Jon? Is this were Jon told Helen to bring him, or has there been a mistake somehow? He should have known better than this, to think that Martin could what, restart his life without him? After everything they’d been through? That he could just go back to working and living his life like none of it ever happened? Absolute lunacy. When Martin finds the self-sacrificing arsehole he’s going to _hear_ it!

Gertrude has stopped talking and is studying him silently. When their eyes connect she levels him with another challenging quirk of the brow. “What are you going to do now Mister Blackwood? You could still take the position as my assistant. To be quit frank I initially considered you for the role because you seemed like you’d be completely inept for it, which is rather what I was looking for. Obviously this is no longer true. But I could use your help. And you’d have the resources to seek the answers you’re looking for. What do you say?”

Martin considers it, he really does. But it doesn’t sit right in the slightest. “Full offence Gertrude.” He says to her, tone completely amicable, “but I know how you treat your assistants, and I don’t much fancy it. Besides.” His fists clench on his knees, aching to hold a hand that’s not there. “You’re not my Archivist.”

She chuckles, not at all thrown by his allusion to her late former employees. “Yes I can see that. You’re bound to another. Well. If you ever change your mind...”

“I won’t.” He tells her firmly. “But can you answer a question for me? In this reality, is Michael Shelley still the distortion?”

“Ah. So I made that decision in your world too. Don’t known if that makes me feel better or worse about it.”

“You should feel worse.”

“Probably.” She shrugs, and nods, “Yes the Distortion merged with Michael Shelley and was still inhabiting his likeness the last time I encountered it.”

“Do you have any idea how I can get in contact with it?”

“Is that your plan? To ask for that creature’s help? It’s quite unwise.”

“Yes I know that.” Martin snaps, losing patience. “I don’t care. The Distortion brought me here and I can’t imagine I’ll be able to get Helen’s attention, actually Helen Richardson is probably off living a blissfully normal, undistorted life right now. So I have no other choice than to ask Michael.”

“On your head be it. Michael, the human Michael, frequented a cafe down by the river. Cafe Society if you’re familiar? Anyway he was always raving on about it, always bringing everyone mediocre pastries and coffee. Sometimes when I pass by the place I can sense that the Distortion is in there. As if some of that attachment transferred over. You could try there.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s nothing.”

Martin rises, looking around the office with a strange sense of detachment. How many times had he wished he could quit, how much misery had this place caused him. And yet. This is where he’d fallen in love with Jon. To think that he’s going to leave it behind just like that.

He pauses at the door, turns back to the woman still sitting at the desk. “Watch your back Gertrude. My Elias murdered you, I wouldn’t be surprised if yours tried the same thing.”

“Thank you Mr Blackwood I’m well aware. Rest assured that I will be on my guard.”

He nods. And leaves the archives.

\- - -

He stops by the library to let Jaycee know that he’s quitting. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to work out my two weeks either.” He tells her, honestly apologetic. Jaycee’s a good one and it’s not her fault that the Martin she knew has been replaced by a dimension-hopping interloper. “And if Elias tried to give you a hard time about it tell him that _I_ said he can fuck off. Take care of yourself Jay!”

Then, lastly, he heads to research. He has to. 

It’s still early enough that only about half of the staff have arrived, and Martin gets there a couple minutes before Sasha and Tim. They stroll in together, and the sight of them arm-in-arm clutching matching sandwich bags and bickering at each other is so beloved that Martin could easily burst into tears if he allowed himself. They pause when they spot him waiting perched on Sasha’s desk, shooting each other confused looks before greeting him.

“Martin my man! What brings you to our humble abode?” Tim unwinds from Sasha and slings his arm around Martin instead. God but he missed this version of Tim, smiling with full dimples, so effortlessly demonstrative with his affection. “Need something from your favourite research duo? Does Sash have outstanding late fees that you’re here to collect? Gasp! Sasha you criminal I should have known you had a dark side! Bash her kneecaps Martin!”

Martin laughs, gazing at both of them, drinking them in. How on earth could he have ever forgotten what Sasha looks like? She’s so very beautiful. “Nothing like that I just uh...I came to say goodbye? I’ve quit you see, and I’m not coming back.”

“Holy smokes Martin Blackwood! Who knew you had such a spontaneous side! Mazel tov!” Tim jiggles him heartily. Sasha echoes his congratulations in a warm, earnest tone.

Bless both of them, they hadn’t even known each other well at this point. He’d known Tim he same way everyone knew Tim, you just couldn’t not. And Sasha was a frequent library visitor and always put in the time to have a pleasant chat when she was by. But it must seem a little strange, Martin showing up here to say goodbye to them specifically. And he’s about to make it even weirder.

“I just wanted to say.” He swallows against the tightness in his throat and gently shrugs Tim’s arm off to give himself space. “You should quit too. Both of you. You’re so...so much bigger than this place. You deserve better, is what I mean, Sasha. And Tim, just consider that it wouldn’t be so bad, to just live a good life and be happy? It would be a victory, in its own way. The best sort of victory.”

They’re both definitely looking at him strangely now, and Martin holds up his hands to stop them from saying anything. “I know I sound loony! I can’t explain, I’m sorry, but I couldn’t leave without saying something. So goodbye, take care of each other. And whatever you do _don’t take a job in the Archives_. I’m serious. Just don’t.”

And with that he hightails it out of there. God but they’re going to think he’s crazy, but hopefully some of it will resonate, he wishes he had time to hang around and make sure it does. But.

He’s got to get back to Jon.

Back at the entrance Martin pauses on the sidewalk and looks back at the Magnus Institute. Above the clouds have subsided, the sky is blue, and the sun is shining. “Good fucking riddance.” He mutters, flipping the bird in the general direction of Elias’ office, wondering if the man has any clue about any of it. If he can see Martin, if he can tell that something about him isn’t quite right.

It doesn’t matter.

Martin has more important things to do.

**Author's Note:**

> One of the many time-line discrepancies is the date of Gertrude's death. One being between March 13th-15th 2015, the other being more than a year later. So. Play with that I shall. 
> 
> Title from How Far We've Come by Matchbox 20 (obvs)


End file.
